


different colours, made of tears

by Amber



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Flogging, Id Fic, M/M, Sex Club, ace subtype: kinky asexual, more kink tags will be added with later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 09:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20703389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: In his last year of college, Jon allows himself to be dragged to a BDSM club. There, he meets Elias, who offers him a chance at a different kind of education all together.





	different colours, made of tears

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a 50 Shades AU, but it's in that genre. Sorry.

"It'll be fun, Jon," Jon says mockingly, in a poor mimic of Georgie's voice. "You need to get out more." Ugh. Some twink in an evening dress glances curiously at the man talking to himself, and Jon glares back until he looks away again. Why did he agree to come. This isn't his scene.

(All right, so he knows why. He wants to impress Georgie Barker, because she's interesting and fun and flirts with him even though he's himself. And she was right that after being cooped up studying for exams for so long he needs to do something else, be somewhere else. It's just that he didn't expect the something else to be a goddamn _sex party_.)

Jon folds his arms. Georgie had assured him he didn't have to dress up in harnesses and leather and such, had promised he wouldn't have to participate, but he still feels out of place, in an ordinary shirt and slacks. There is a booth on the opposite side to the bar doing ropework, and he's seen several people with intricate chest pieces, so he's considering going and asking for one, but worried they might ask him to take his shirt off. So instead he's got his arms folded, drink in the crook of his elbow, watching someone splayed across a St Andrew's Cross, sobbing softly as they're flogged. 

The scene itself is interesting — he doesn't really understand how that could be enjoyable for the parties involved, but the deep-seated curiosity he's carried his whole life _wants_ to. He listens to the pitch of the young submissive's cries as they arch into the unforgiving restraints, watches the way the man with the multi-tailed whip pauses and runs a soothing hand across their shoulderblades, murmuring something only they can hear, before he takes up his flogger again. There's a story here, he thinks, and he wants to know it, watches avid for more details that will enlighten him.

"They're good, aren't they," says a voice from beside him. Jon has always had an overactive startle response, and he spills his drink over the cuff of his jumper. Fortunately, it's just water, though he'd asked the bartender for ice and lemon and a proper glass so he can at least pretend he isn't a Rechabite square. "Sorry," says the strange man, "Let me get that for you." He pulls out a pocket square in inky black, and takes Jon's hand in one of his own, dabbing at the liquid carefully as Jon stares at him.

The lighting in the club is poor, except for the spotlit spaces set up for little demonstrations like the one he's been watching, so he can't see the man entirely clearly, but he can see enough to know he is unconventionally attractive. Older than Jon, though he'd find it difficult to guess in a pinch by how much exactly, something European in the cheekbones giving the man a fae timelessness, the way David Bowie had had. Expensively dressed, which Jon, in his time at Oxford, has come to truly despise — not so much because he himself is terribly poor, but because the rich are generally awful. Still, the well-tailored suit stands out distinctly here, amongst all the kinksters in leather and latex. 

"Ah," he says, eloquent as always. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," the man says, folding his dampened handkerchief and pressing it back into his breast pocket. He doesn't sound sardonic. Not the way Jon would be, saying the same words, however much he meant them. Jon, for a reason he doesn't really understand, blushes. "I'm Elias."

"Jon," says Jon, not sure whether to offer a handshake. Elias takes pity and offers it for him: he has a firm, dry grip; cool hands.

"Are you here with anyone, Jon?" he asks intently.

"Er, yes, actually," Jon says, and Elias tenses minutely, relaxes when he says, "A few friends. School chums. You know. I don't really know where they got off to, actually, I got a bit... distracted."

Elias is smiling. "It's a distracting place. First time?"

"Am I that obvious?" Jon asks, brittle.

"You are." Elias says. "Now. Can I buy you another drink?" And then, slightly deprecatory, though Jon thinks it might be aimed inwards, "Are you old enough to drink?"

"I am," scoffs Jon. "But I don't. It was just water. Don't worry about it."

"I see." Elias seems amused by this. "Then perhaps you'll let me make amends by playing tour guide. Have you seen the rainbow rooms yet?"

"I'm ... not sure what that is," says Jon stiffly. "So, probably not."

"Excellent. I'll show you." Elias takes his hand for the third time, but not this time to shake or clean, just leading him through the crowd. Jon keeps an eye out for Georgie, but the truth is he doesn't really want to spot her yet. Wants Elias to show him around one-on-one, wants the regard of those piercing pale eyes and the melting butter of his voice all to himself. "This is the violet room," Elias tells him, loud over his shoulder, and then they pass through a doorway and Jon gets to see what he means.

The main part of the nightclub, dance floor and bar and tables and demonstrations, had seemed like all there was. But this room is only lit by blacklight, catching on the whites in the room and lighting them up in the dim. Out there had been performances, tutorials, but here it's just sex, bodies twined on low couches, or moving to the music against the wall. Jon wonders if Georgie is one of them. 

Elias swims them through the dark spaces in between, to the curling staircase that is the centerpiece of the room. Three industrial-goth women with sideshaves are using the bottom stairs and bannisters to sit and chat, but they move aside for Elias and Jon, and together they ascend.

The first thing Jon notices is that it's quieter up here, the dance music becoming a smothered bass below them. "Are we still in the club?" Jon asks, uncertain, and Elias chuckles. 

"This _is_ the club," he says, and they emerge onto the first floor. The stairs continue upwards, but Elias still has him by the hand, a fact that Jon is keenly aware of, and he leads them forward, into a strange, dark room. It's partitioned in places: by jutting walls, by tall mirrors, and by thick indigo curtains, floor to ceiling, though some are pulled back. That and the low light makes it hard to judge how many people are here.

"I don't understand," says Jon, voice low now he doesn't have to raise it above the music. Something about this room feels hushed. Perhaps because it's carpeted, or the thick curtains absorb the sound. 

"This is the indigo room," Elias says, and Jon is starting to understand what he meant by calling them the Rainbow Rooms, assumes the rest of Newton's ROYGBIV spectrum has influenced the decor of other rooms, here or the floors above. But the colour alone doesn't really explain anything, and he's starting to get impatient with being led around and told nothing. Elias has brought him over to a standing monolith, smoothly rectangular except for curtained holes. There's a green light running around the top that seems innocuous.

"This room is mostly for anonymity," Elias is explaining quietly, "And sensory deprivation. For instance, this is a grope box. The green light means somebody's submissive is in there and you are allowed to touch them, if you want."

Jon — fails to see the appeal, really, but Elias is looking expectantly at him so he slips his hand into one of the holes. Immediately he encounters warm skin, the soft pliancy of a naked breast, and snatches his hand back like it's been burned, his cheeks heating. "Sorry," he says, not sure to whom he's apologizing. "I just wasn't expecting—" he swallows. "I don't — I'm new to this."

"So I've gathered," says Elias, reaches in the same hole Jon did, withdraws his hand after a moment, implacable. "Are you not interested in women?"

"It's not that," says Jon immediately, young and too defensive, even though Elias is right that touching a bare breast was fairly meaningless to him. "I just, she's naked in there. And anyone can just... reach in."

"Yes," says Elias. "She is probably immobilized, gagged. Unable to do much more than take whatever strange hands decide to give her." He must see something in Jon's face, and he tuts. "Don't worry. Her partner is doubtlessly close by, monitoring her safety. People don't simply strap themselves into one of these on their own." He touches Jon's wrist, very lightly, in a way that makes Jon's heart race suddenly, and then takes his hand once more. "Further down are the glory holes. There are deprivation tanks as well."

"I've always been a little curious about those," Jon admits. "I don't know if I could stand to try one, though. My thoughts wander enough as it is."

Elias smiles a little. "Perhaps let's finish the tour, and then if there's something you'd really like to try, I'll guide you through it," he suggests. Jon nods, hoping the darkness of the room covers any redness in his face. This handsome stranger is doing him a kindness — he doesn't deserve the way Jon thinks about his cool and steady hands guiding Jon down to a gloryhole to take some anonymous member into his mouth, or strapping him into one of the contraptions in order to— 

Well. His fantasies are lacking in concrete detail, at this stage. Elias' explanations will help with that, at least.

The next room is louder, brighter. It's immediately and obviously blue, all shades of blue, eggshell walls and vivid dark tiles underfoot that sparkle like the night sky, billowy gauze curtains in sky colours that hide little. Even the lights seem to lend everything a bluish cast. And the noise in the air is a metallic hum, machines buzzing, someone crying out.

"If the last room was deprivation," says Elias as they walk through, "Then this is its opposite. There are a variety of ways to stimulate sensation here, from flogging poles to our sybians and fucking machines, there." He gestures to the contraptions at the back of the room, and the shape of the word fuck in his mouth makes Jon blush, so he hides it by studying them intensely. Jon thinks he'd have to see someone using them before he understood how they worked, but he can get the gist. It doesn't much help his wide-eyed embarrassment.

This room is surprisingly empty of people, aside from the groans coming from behind a curtain. "I believe you can hear the results of Simon using a wand, but let's not interrupt them."

"A wand?" scoffs Jon, rather than think too hard about the flogging poles as they pass them.

"Not the magic sort," says Elias, leading them through a door to the left. "A violet wand is an electrostimulation device."

"Oh," says Jon, and has a very real urge to ask to go and peek behind the curtain, because that sounds just as fascinating as the flogging earlier had been. If he'd been asked yesterday he wouldn't have said he had any voyeuristic tendencies but. Well. Here they are.

"The green rooms are for aftercare," says Elias; they walk down a corridor with doors leading off. "There's showers, soft blankets, first aid stations, that kind of thing. They don't go into any of the rooms, but instead emerge through a door back to the staircase they emerged from. Jon feels a little turned around, readjusts his understanding of where they are in the building.

"It seems we've missed some colours," he points out. 

"Upstairs," explains Elias, and up they climb.

Here, the club music is no longer audible; they emerge into a quiet reception-like space with a bored security guard who waves them through without comment. "Sorry," says Jon, hastening after Elias as they move into yet another corridor, "Did you pay in advance or something?"

Elias laughs lightly. "Or something. Andrik back there handles bookings: it's all private rooms up here. Yellow is bedrooms and bondage, orange is much the same but with some themed decor and props for if you want to be, I don't know, a pretty princess or a pirate captain or a naughty little schoolboy. Red doors indicate, ah, messiness. Piss-play, bukkake, blood, that sort of thing. Fluid swapping is not undertaken lightly, so those are all locked even when they're not in use, and we employ specialist cleaners for those areas."

"We," Jon says, starting to suspect something he probably should have picked up in advance.

At the end of the corridor is a lift that must provide access between all the floors, and Jon follows Elias into it, not meeting his own eyes in the mirror, and trying also not to stare at Elias now that they're somewhere well-lit. The sharp lines of his haircut, the way his mouth curves a little even in a neutral expression, the line of his throat. God. He assumes they're going to take the lift back down to the ground floor, perhaps get a drink, but instead Elias swipes a key card and it starts smoothly upwards.

"There's another level?" Jon asks, startled. 

"That would be my penthouse, yes," says Elias.

"Ah." Jon goes tense, skin prickling, tries to examine the control panel without being obvious about it. He fishes for his phone, too: it's just occurred to him Georgie has no idea where he is. 

Elias laughs suddenly. "Relax, please, I'm not kidnapping you. You're welcome to invite your friends up, if you'd like, I can tell Andrik to let them through." He smiles at Jon, clearly amused by his discomfort. "I simply have my own personal collection of some of the items downstairs, and thought you might like to experiment with a couple privately."

"With you," points out Jon, each word distinct, a heavy distrust underscoring them even though a moment ago he had been happy to naively follow Elias through the building.

"I wouldn't say no," says Elias. The lift doors open, but neither of them steps out. "Would you prefer to go back downstairs, Jon?"

Jon swallows, not sure what he wants. The apartment they're emerging into is sleekly posh, all dark marble and glass, recesses with little art pieces displayed. It looks, sounds, _smells_ like the flat of someone with money, discordant in this kind of club in this part of Oxford. Though probably most upmarket flats don't have the silver trapeze bar on the ceiling, the bars on the cage below the coffee table, the little touches that speak to Jon of uses less pedestrian than simple decoration.

It would be safer, sensible, to head back. Perhaps Elias would still show him some knot-work or something, or he could watch someone being electrocuted for fun — hell, he could find Georgie, see if maybe she wanted to try out some of the floggers with him. It would be comfortable, with her. But his curiosity about both BDSM and, now, Elias himself, are still an unsatisfied itch below his skin, and he doesn't _want_ to muddle through some impact play 101. He wants — he doesn't know what he wants. But he thinks maybe he's starting to catch the shape of it.

Jon steps forward into the room, and Elias follows him, the lift doors sliding shut behind him, nearly invisible in the wall. It's quiet here, bar the soft sound of moving water coming from a low-lit water sculpture on the wall next to them. 

"Good," says Elias, looking and sounding annoyingly smug about this choice. "Can I get you a glass of water?"

"Actually," says Jon, "I'll take a real drink, if it's possible. Doesn't matter what." He just wants to calm his nerves a little, loosen up.

"Certainly," says Elias. "Just one, though. I think we both ought to be sober if we're going to play with dangerous toys."

There's a mini-bar. Because of course there is. Jon wanders awkwardly around the edges of the room while Elias fixes him a drink. He examines a framed photograph triptych of a bound man, pale skin framed with starkly beautiful shibari in black and white, tastefully nude, face turned away. Looks at statuary, vases, a mask, a phallic piece of stone in a plexiglass box. The bookcase seems equally for display, which at first Jon disapproves of, but then there are some interesting titles there amongst the coffee table books and glossy-covered classics, and there's a whole shelf devoted to kink.

"Here we are," says Elias, and Jon turns and takes the cocktail. "Take a seat, if you'd like. You're obviously dying to ask me questions."

Is he? Is he obvious? Jon sips his drink, which is mysteriously lovely, all juniper and rose and honey. Stubbornly stays standing. "You act like I was supposed to recognize that you — what, own the place?"

"Yes, says Elias. "I liked that you didn't. Your complete ignorance is... refreshing."

Jon bristles at that, because he prides himself on his intelligence — "I'll have you know I got a full scholarship to Oxford—"

"Your ignorance about BDSM, then," corrects Elias smoothly. He has his own drink, something deep amber, and he sips it, still watching Jon over the rim. "I'm not trying to be insulting, Jon. Far from it. I'm very much hoping you'll allow me to seduce you."

"Ah, I—" Jon stutters suddenly, choking a little on his drink. He feels hot and stupid, doesn't know what to do with his hands. "I mean, that's very flattering, but I don't, I mean, I don't think—"

"No?" Elias asks, gaze razor sharp, fixed. "A shame if not, but I shall survive. I don't find anything stimulating in coercing a submissive. I prefer... willing obedience."

Jon feels a shiver go down his spine. "I've been told I'm a bit headstrong," he says, lashes cast low. "Stubborn." Wouldn't make a good submissive, is what he's trying to say. But Elias clicks his tongue.

"If you knew that misbehavior would lead to punishment and you still misbehaved, I would conclude perhaps you wanted to be punished," Elias tells him silkily. "But I'd still want it to be willing. I would want to negotiate in advance what would count as misbehavior — what would merit punishment. And I would give you a safeword, which—"

"I know what a safeword is," Jon blusters sharply. "I do understand the basics of consent."

Elias still doesn't seem particularly ruffled by the way embarrassment makes Jon abrasive. "I suppose it's all a moot point. Given you're not interested."

Jon looks down at his drink, then takes a long gulp for courage, nearly polishing it off. "I- I'm interested in learning, about BDSM. From you. You mentioned, ah, letting me experiment... with the items you kept up here."

"I did," agrees Elias. "They're better quality and undoubtedly cleaner than anything downstairs, and you may spend as long as you like with them — and not have people's eyes on you as you do, though some people do enjoy that."

"Not while I'm trying to learn," Jon says, tries not to think about how that's a tacit admission that perhaps he'd enjoy being watched once he felt a little more confident. But really, he isn't sure what he'd enjoy. That's all part of the compelling mystery at this point.

Elias sips his drink, ice clinking. Watching Jon with a shocking level of intensity for how calm and relaxed he otherwise seems. Jon wonders what he's thinking.

"Come, then," says Elias, turning away, and Jon shivers down to his toes.

Jon finishes his drink and follows Elias down a short corridor to three doors. Two are open: on the left is what must be Elias' bedroom, too dark to see much of but neat and not looking particularly like a kink space. Ahead of them is a luxurious bathroom, with a tub bigger than any Jon's ever seen. He loves baths, perhaps because he can read in them, but he doesn't get to take them often.

It's the closed door, however, that contains the room they enter. Perhaps it was originally a study or a second bedroom, but now, when Elias flips the light on, it is very clearly a space for sex. There's a foldable massage table in the center with a hook and pulley affixed in the ceiling above, a St. Andrew's cross leant in the corner, a standing cage in another. A drain in the center of a gentle slope of the tiled floor. Shelves of plugs and dildos, lines of whips and paddles and sharp objects hanging from hooks, a floor to ceiling mirror. It's like an Adult Paraphernalia shop. It's like something out of _Fifty Shades of Grey_. It's like what he imagined might be in those locked away rooms on the floor below, but more, so much more. The room smells of metal and disinfectant, but just walking in here _feels_ like sex, like Elias is sharing some private and intimate expertise.

"Good lord," Jon breathes. He stands in the middle of the room, not sure what he's allowed to touch.

Elias is at ease, though, turns and takes Jon's hands, leads him further into the room. "Tell me what interests you."

"I... well. I want to know what all the different— er, paddles? And things. Do." That seems like a safe request, wanting an education in all the instruments.

Elias nods, crowding Jon up against the table. "Of course, I can tell you how many objects in this room work. But I'd rather you tell me what it is you imagine seeing done, or doing, or having done to you."

Jon swallows, his chin tipping back to expose his throat despite himself, Elias' eyes on it. He can feel a single trickle of nervous sweat trailing down his spine. He thinks of all the things they saw in the rooms below, which ones caught his interest. "I-I-I... the electricity, interested me," he admits. "But it really is... the whipping. Flogging. That, that sort of thing. I don't know."

"Would you like to flog somebody else?" Elias asks.

"Um. I mean. Only if that's what they, wanted." He can't imagine Elias letting anyone mar that beautiful pale skin, even in demonstration.

"So you'd rather be flogged yourself," Elias says, and it's a logical conclusion, and he's hardly going to judge Jon, but there's still a long pause as two high spots of colour appear on Jon's cheeks. Elias waits it out.

"Yes," Jon admits finally, voice low, word bursting out past his teeth.

"You want to know what it feels like."

"Yes." An easier admittance this time, though the shame is still there, constricting.

Elias leans in very close. "You want me to flog you."

Jon's breath goes rapid, but it's not fear. "Yes," he admits very quietly. Then immediately blusters: "Don't get the wrong idea, I'm not giving in to your- your _seductions_, I just... I just want..."

He trails off. Elias lifts a hand and takes his chin, making Jon reluctantly meet his eyes, but there's only acceptance there, interest and heat. "I know," he says. "I know exactly what you want. Not sex. But you want to feel — new sensations. You want to test yourself, your limits. You want to give up control for a little while, and trust someone to hurt you in ways that take you away from having to live in your own head."

Jon feels known. He nods, just a little, against the grip of Elias' hand. Wants to close his eyes but can't seem to make himself. "That all sounds. Quite good. Yes."

"All right. We'll do that, then."

Jon is certain he's about to be kissed, is readying himself for it, but Elias backs off instead. Goes over to the wall and takes down a selection of tools and toys, and begins to explain the basics to Jon, differentiating a paddle from a flogger, explaining the use of holes, the materials used, the different kinds of impact on skin. Rolls up the sleeve of his shirt and cracks objects against his own muscular forearms to show Jon the different kinds of marks, whip welts and paddle brush, broken capillaries and deep bruising. Jon touches the marks with awe and wonders if maybe Elias wouldn't mind being flogged after all, so comfortable is he with the pain.

Aside from the break of leather on skin it's dry, academic tutelage, and yet Jon can feel his cock getting hard for it, a steady pulse in his slacks that he's so excruciatingly aware of that he imagines Elias must be too, that anyone would be able to see how worked up he is just handling these well-crafted objects. So ordinary, and yet made solely for one purpose. Jon is warm, too warm, damp at the back of his neck with the heat of this. Elias gives him a sidelong, knowing smile when he lingers too long over a riding crop, and Jon flushes to his toes. He has genuinely never been so mentally aroused in his life — certainly not when messing around with Georgie, but there's also never been pornography that worked for him like this. He didn't know his body had the capacity, or not without a long time spent in mindless, rhythmic stimulation.

The crop sings in the air when he brings it down, and Jon says: "This one, please," with the steadiest tone he can manage. 

Elias takes it from him with a smile, and a "Yes, excellent choice," and Jon feels his face and chest suffuse with warmth. Embarrassment, yes, he's incredibly embarrassed and has been for this entire time, but something else as well. Something in Elias' smile lights up an answering smile in Jon, and oh, this is more dangerous than any object in this room, in this whole damn building. The warmth isn't just arousal — it's a giddy sort of liking. A desire to have and keep Elias' attention, his good regard. He has a _crush_.

If Elias has noticed that Jon is a useless mess of arousal and feelings then he politely doesn't comment. He's busy with the massage table. Apparently it tilts, and he extends and shortens the legs like a camera tripod, until the table is a gentle upward slope.

"Come lean here," he says, a gentle command. "Lift your arms — good. Lean harder on it. See how it takes your weight?" He smooths a hand down between Jon's shoulderblades and Jon feels a wash of shame at how lovely it is, that simple touch. Presses his hot forehead to the cool, plasticky material.

"Get on with it already," he says there, and Elias laughs with a little surprise.

"Bossy. Are you feeling embarrassed? I haven't even asked you to take your clothes off yet."

"That won't bother me," says Jon. He does prefer to be dressed, a little bit of a prude, but he isn't particularly body conscious. Except for how he doesn't want Elias to know he's hard. "Just the shirt?"

"Just the shirt," Elias reassures him, tugging Jon's shoulder, to encourage him to stand upright again, face-to-face. "May I?" Hands waiting at Jon's buttons for permission. "We can leave it all on if you like. It'll still hurt."

"But not as much," Jon says, which makes Elias smile again, apparently delighted by Jon's masochism. "Go on then."

Elias thumbs along the top of his chest, over the plain cheap material of his shirt, then along the line of buttons, before finally starting to undo them. Jon has the thought that he could do this himself — but he doesn't. Watches, instead, Elias' elegant hands as they expose him moment by moment. 

"Safeword?" Elias asks him.

"Is there some reason stop won't work?" Jon asks, more acid than inquiry. Elias laughs

"No," he says, "Of course I'll stop or slow down if that's what you ask for. But if in future it might tittilate you for me to ignore your protests, it's worth getting used to the ah, awkwardness of a safeword now."

"Just stop will do," says Jon.

Elias hangs his shirt on a peg, and Jon, shirtless, turns back to the tilted table. Lifts his arms again, without instruction this time, and Elias says, "Good," and that's exactly what he wanted, that calm and knowing praise.

"Show me," he says, because this is a lesson, even if what he's learning isn't quite what he expected Elias to be able to teach him. And Elias puts a heavy hand on his bare skin to hold him in place, and does.


End file.
